After I Called My Brooding Roommate My Wife

I called Julian my wife while he was flipping grilled cheese at midnight, and he nearly dropped the spatula. "What did you just call me?" "My wife." I leaned against the kitchen counter and gave him my most innocent smile. "You're feeding me. It felt accurate." "It's a sandwich." "It's a sandwich made with care." "It's a sandwich made because you said you'd been living on vending-machine pretzels." I glanced at the pan. Two sandwiches, cut diagonally, with the corners pressed flat so the cheese wouldn't escape. Julian had even set a jar of tomato soup on the counter. The kitchen in our off-campus apartment was barely wide enough for one person to turn around, but he moved through it like he had measured every inch. He wore black most days. His hair fell into his eyes, and he had the still, watchful expression of someone waiting for a fire alarm to go off. At Alder College, people called him quiet, intense, or, when they thought he couldn't hear, gloomy. I called him my wife. I'd started doing it three weeks earlier, after he'd fixed the loose hem on my favorite jeans with a tiny sewing kit. I'd thanked him. He'd told me not to make a thing of it. So naturally I'd said, "Anything for me, wife?" He'd glared at me. I'd laughed. He hadn't asked me to stop. Now he set a plate in front of me. "Eat," he said. "Yes, darling." "Say that again and I'm taking the plate back." I took a bite. "You wouldn't." He stood at the counter, eating his own sandwich without looking at me. The overhead light caught a faint silver ring in his left ear. I'd noticed it during the first week of classes, along with the crescent scar on his thumb and the way he checked the lock twice before going to bed. I'd noticed a lot about Julian. I hadn't figured out what to do with any of it. "You're taking the lighting practicum?" I asked. He glanced over. "If I get in." "You will." "You don't know that." "I've seen you build an entire lighting grid from a box of broken parts and a label maker." "I had the manual." "You also have a frightening amount of talent." "Don't call me frightening." "Fine. An alarming amount of talent." The corner of his mouth moved. Not quite a smile, but close enough to feel like winning. I lived with Julian because our housing assignment had put us together and neither of us could afford to move. We were both juniors, both studying theater, and both on financial aid. I was an actor who liked the attention until it arrived at the wrong moment. Julian designed lights and costumes and preferred to be useful without being looked at. He was also the only person who remembered I hated pickles, the only person who'd learned my coffee order, and the only person who could tell when I was pretending not to be tired. I'd decided the wife joke was a clever way to acknowledge those things without admitting they mattered. "Come to the theater meeting tomorrow," I said. "I have a lab." "It's at five." "My lab ends at five." "Then you can arrive at five-oh-three and impress everyone by being punctual." "I don't impress people." "False. You scare them into respecting you." "That isn't the same thing." I rested my elbows on the counter. "You'd be good for the production team. They need someone who knows how to make a tight budget look intentional." Julian's eyes lifted. "You're auditioning?" "For the spring show. The department's doing The Winter's Tale." "You hate Shakespeare." "I hate auditions. Shakespeare is just the obstacle in a nicer outfit." "You're going to audition." "Probably." He set his plate in the sink. "Then go." "Are you coming?" "I said I have a lab." "That's not a no." "That's exactly a no." The next morning, I found him sitting at the kitchen table with a mug of coffee beside a stack of costume sketches. He wore the same black sweater as the night before. I stopped in the doorway. "Good morning, wife." "Don't start." "You're right. It's too early for pet names." I poured coffee. "I'll use your full title." "Julian is fine." "Julian Reed, domestic menace." He put down his pencil. "You have an audition this afternoon. Take your sides out of your backpack before they get crumpled." I blinked at him. The printed pages were already waiting beside my coffee. "You did that?" "You left them on the couch." "You're taking care of my audition now?" "I'm keeping our living room from becoming a paper landfill." "Right. Practical. Not tender." He looked at me over the rims of his glasses. "You're going to be late." I grabbed the pages. "Thank you, wife." He sighed, but when I reached for the door, he said, "Eli." I turned. "Good luck." The words were quiet. They landed harder than they should have. I smiled. "Thanks." That afternoon, I got the part. When I came home, Julian was at the table with the same sketches spread around him. I dropped my backpack and announced the news. He looked up. "You got Leontes?" "I got Leontes." For a second, his face opened. Then he stood and held out his hand. I shook it. His fingers were warm and callused. He let go quickly, but not before his thumb brushed the inside of my palm. "Congratulations," he said. I should have said something normal. Instead, I grinned. "Thanks, sweetheart." His expression closed again, but this time he didn't look away. "Don't call me that when you're trying to get a reaction," he said. "What if I'm not trying to get a reaction?" His gaze stayed on mine. The room seemed suddenly smaller. "Then you should know what you're asking for," he said. He picked up his sketches before I could answer. I stood beside the table with my hand still warm, wondering if Julian had meant the nickname or something much more dangerous.